Would you consider writing a poly141 version of the babytrap universe? Completely understand if it’s not to your interest to write, but I would love to see that story play out in your delicious writing style :)
ohh, absolutely. i think the best way to do it would be to have poor reader, desperate for a family of her own, and making the stupid decision to hand her resignation into Price.
and then admitting, shyly, that there's no man in your life, just a donor waiting for you to sign the papers and make the deposit for the procedure. thanking him for everything he's done, of course; but you're excited for this new chapter in your life.
He accepts it. Sure. Smiles tightly, and says, "good luck." Calls a meeting after to discuss it with the rest of the team. Closed door. A little unusual, but nothing that immediately raises your hackles. You're too busy cleaning up your desk to really pay much attention to hushed whispers in Price's office. Happy to celebrate, too, when Johnny invited you out for drinks after. Tae say goodbye properly, he said, and looking back, you should have seen through the faux sadness draped over his brow. Picked up on the giddy excitement buzzing around him as he led you to the bar, as he offered to get you drinks. Handed you an open bottle. Tipping it back for you to drink more.
Keep goin’, doe. Drink ‘er up.
Another one. Another. Your head swims. Kyle is there, hands warm on your waist, breath rippling across the sweat gathering on the nape of your neck.
“C’mon, birdie. Have a shot with me.” He coos, bringing the glass to your lips, chest glued to your spine. “Can't believe you want a baby. Fuck, birdie, that's—”
Johnny murmurs something under his breath. You blamed the three glasses of whiskey sour (Price wouldn't let you have anything else) and a shot of tequila for why it sounded like,
hope it's mine—
To the left of you, Ghost snorts under his breath. Shifts in the stool that creaks, whining under his weight. You blink through fog seeping into your head, this strange, syrupy torpor that bleeds into the corners of your vision, makes everything feel muted, far away, and turned to him with a pout.
He'd been acting strange ever since Price told him your plans. Quieter, somehow. But—
There.
Everywhere.
Your fixed shadow. Looming in the corners.
You make to ask him what the hell he's doing, why he's following you around, but the words slosh out in a tangle. Incompressible.
Ghost huffs. His gloved hand lifts, falls to your throat, holding you steady with his thumb digging shallowly into your pulse.
“Careful,” he mocks, dragging the word out like he was speaking to a misbehaving child. It bristles through you, but your tongue is thick. Liquid in your mouth. “Got a big night ahead o’you yet, pet. Try not t’hurt yourself before I get to knock you up.”
Distantly, you think you hear Gaz say something—oi, mate, maybe—but there's a shrill ringing in your ear that drowns it all out. A cotton spooling in your head. You blink—foolishly—and lean into his palm, mouth dropping in surprise. Shock.
Horror.
“Wha—?”
But it's too late, of course. What you thought were the comforting threads of a warm blanket spooling over your shoulders was the silken strands of a spider's web the whole time. Caught in their trap.
And then you come to with a warm weight pressed against your back, a thick, hairy arm slung around your shoulders. Trapping you tight against a warm, broad chest.
“Want a baby, mm?” your captain coos in your ear, humid breath tickling your skin. Dampening it slightly as he leans in close, lips pressed to the shell—a warm, wet heat that makes you tremble—and adds: “fine, love. Since you want one so bad—”
An arm lashes out of the shadows dancing around the room; through the heavy haze, the fog in your head (the last thing you remember is being offered a drink by Johnny, another by Kyle—), you struggle to make sense of what's happening around you as rough, dry fingers curl over your knee, prying your thighs apart:
“—then we'll give it to you.”
You watch, dazed, dizzy, as cherryred knuckles slip down the valley of your spread legs, the ink on their thick fingers flexing, dancing, in the slip of pale moonlight until they curl into the hem of your panties, tugging the fabric roughly to the side.
The sudden swell of cold air on your exposed cunt makes you gasp. Your knees jerking, trying to fold together to hide yourself, preserve some modicum of modesty, but the hand on your flesh tightens. Prevents you from moving. It keeps you open for their gaze. Lets them all gawk at the wide knuckles pressed against the seam of your pussy. Flushed in the low light. Dripping—
In the murk, someone groans—
“Shoulda told us sooner you wanted a fuckin’ baby, sweet’art. Woulda given you one sooner before y’had to go an’ do somethin’ so foolish—”
Foolish. Like paying for another man to put a baby inside of you when that privilege belongs to them. And them alone.
And really—
You should have known better.
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vampire au where they can only drink the blood type they were before they were turned. other blood has an almost poisonous effect, burning them from within like acid and drinking too much of it can kill them
in the old days, before the knowledge of blood types, it made humans they could feed on absolutely precious. they're kept safe, pampered and doted on; a vampire’s most prized possession
attacking another vampire's human is seen as the highest insult; not only is it a slight against them, it also carries the implication of "i want you to starve"
it's also used as the cruelest of punishments; starving a vampire for months, until they're feral with hunger just for their torturer to throw in a random human, watching them desperately suck down poison, their instincts begging them to keep drinking even as it kills them
ghost is one of the few who survived it; thrown in a pit so deep, he saw stars in the middle of the day, left with nothing but the dried bodies of the humans roba drained without care, others with their throats slit, blood he can't drink spilled out around them
a taunt of the one thing he needs but will never get
but ghost hasn't survived this long just to give up here
he refuses to die in this stinking, rotted pit
ghost is a force of nature as he descends over roba's manor; killing any who wander into his path until the halls run red. until he gets his hands on roba and tells him a secret:
vampires can feed on the blood of any vampire, regardless of blood type
it becomes a legend in vampire high society; if you starve another, you'd best make sure they actually die
otherwise you might end up piled in a dining room, the vampire you left for dead lounging on a throne of corpses with his fangs lodged in your throat
ghost decimates roba's empire, burning it to the ground until no one dares to speak his name in fear of incurring his wrath. it's incredibly taboo for a vampire to feed off another but ghost's too powerful for anyone to challenge him and the other vampires are too scared to try. scared of what he's willing to do, the lengths he'll go to; not that they'll ever admit it
soap is the first human he ever brings to court; delicately bathed in the finest silks and jewels, his throat always bare so he can show off ghost's ownership, his bite framed in lace
he's not like the delicate waifs the other vampires show off; he doesn't cling to his master, demure and submissive. he shows off his teeth as often as any vampire, fully willing to rip out the throats of any who insult him or ghost
a feral master needs a just as feral pet
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